I AWOKE EARLY on Christmas Eve and left the flat soon after. I wanted, for possibly the last time, to get in to Benson’s before Chuang or any of the others. There was a hint of rain in the air and it was cool. Cornelius Vandermeer was very much with me that morning and I walked slowly, enjoying his presence and the prospect of rain. My enjoyment was, however, not undisturbed, and though I moved in a leisurely manner I looked over my shoulder several times to see if I was being followed. The streets were virtually empty and my fears seemed unfounded. It was difficult to believe that the two old men practising Chinese callisthenics or the ancient crone waving a sheaf of incense-sticks heavenwards were members of the secret police.

The furniture department was quiet and dim. I wandered about, smelling the leather and the fabrics, rubbing carpets against their pile, settling myself into armchairs. Then I sat at my desk, enjoying the stillness around me till Ahmad walked in.

“Mornings very quiet nowadays, Mr Perera,” he said, trying but failing to keep a note of accusation out of his voice. Then, “You want something, sir?”

“Just looking around at a few things, Ahmad.” I began shuffling the pieces of paper on my desk. “Tidying up, I guess.”

The girls came in a little later, each nodding a greeting. Seeing me in my usual place, they smiled. I avoided thinking if it was surprise or hope that lit up their eyes, fixing my own resolutely, if blankly, on the invoices before me. I had enough on my mind without having to worry about my salesgirls.

Su-May was picking me up at ten. I had to be quite sure I was not followed to our rendezvous at the bus-stop, or worse, from there to Sheng’s place. The last thing I wanted was to give Sam and his people the kind of information that would put me even more in their power than I felt I already was.

At 9.30 I began to walk casually around the furniture department, nudging pieces into place, arranging the odd drape. My wanderings took me to the doorway and, I walked nonchalantly out into the foyer, which led directly to the main entrance of Benson’s. There were several people on the sidewalk outside and it was impossible to tell who, if any of them, might be assigned to following me. I stepped out briskly. A man who was intently examining a shopping-guide looked up and started towards me. I stopped, examined my watch, shook my head several times and stepped back into the store. The man returned to his shopping-guide. I was sure that there would be somebody watching the back entrance as well so at 9.55 I let myself out of the building by the small side door to which I had the key. The side door opened on to a little alley which once separated rows of shop-houses. These had recently been pulled down and were soon to be replaced by shopping malls and a modern hotel. I stopped, in the middle of a vacant lot, and looked about me. There was no one around. Certain I was not being followed, I hurried across the lot, crossed a narrow lane and reached the main bus-terminal on Orchard Road. I had been there barely a minute when I heard Su-May tooting wildly on her horn and screaming out to me at the same time.

As she slipped the car into the mainstream traffic she said, “What’s the matter, Hern? You’ll get a crick in your neck if you go on looking behind you.”

“Just like to know what’s behind me, my love.” There were no motor-cycles behind us. I put my hand on her knee and relaxed.

She accelerated into the fast lane and, putting the tips of her fingers on my thigh, said, “Can’t wait for you, Hern. Sometimes I simply can’t wait.”

She drove dangerously, putting an added edge to the excitement of our being together. Once out of the main city area we travelled east, towards Changi and the coast, where the land flattened and gave way to a coastline dotted with islands. A few miles before reaching the coast, we turned off the main road on to a pot-holed semi-tarred track leading to Sheng’s house. This was a modern bungalow which stood on its own, concealed by a small forest of withered rubber-trees, their productive years long past. Their barks hung loosely about them like the breasts of very old women. A tiny nameplate hanging askew on a gatepost said: N.C. Sheng.

I had come to know the man soon after I started with Benson’s. Sheng travelled around Southeast Asia buying textiles and handmade wooden furniture, which he supplied to large department stores.

One lot of fabric he supplied us had not been up to specifications. Instead of reporting the matter to Chuang, an action that would certainly have meant the end of Sheng’s dealings with Benson’s, I (convinced that the man had not intended to cheat) had phoned and told him of the discrepancies. These Sheng promptly made good. From that time on, he had looked upon himself as being in my debt.

“A trust,” he said, “is born.” The man was visibly moved. “Just like that which comes by birth to brothers. I hope some day you will use this trust.”

I was not quite sure what he meant but was happy to use his house when Su-May and I needed somewhere to go. Sheng, a bachelor, and often out of town, was only too pleased. To Su-May and me there was something special about Sheng’s house. There we made love undisturbed by the strange noises that filled Benson’s when its occupants left. There we stomped about rooms accustomed to our nudity and were unafraid to leave traces of our presence in the toilet. There we had access to a kitchen in which Su-May concocted meals made edible only by the edge that love-making puts on one’s appetite. At Sheng’s we enjoyed snatches of domesticity, idyllic and impossible outside the confines of marriage.

Su-May bounced on the edge of the bed, her body dripping from the shower she loved to have immediately after making love.

“Aren’t you going to cook me one of your special nutritious meals?” I asked.

“But, Hern, you said…”

“I said?”

“It’s Christmas Eve. You said … you promised you’d have lunch with Peter and the kids.”

“I suppose I did,” I said. “Then I suppose we’d—”

“It’s ‘I suppose’ time again,” she said. She smiled cheekily, but her eyes were brighter than they should have been with laughter and she blinked before adding, “Let’s go before we change our mind. I promised the kids too, you know.”

There was an air of gaiety about the wooden shack in Tampines that was difficult to understand. The Children had made no effort at Christmas decoration, nor could I hear the carols unavoidable in the city. I did notice that the way to the house had been partially cleared of the dead leaves. I suspect this was the result of many people using the path that morning, rather than any deliberate attempt to tidy up the garden for Christmas. Looking through the large wooden window, however, I observed signs of tremendous activity: an event was being prepared for.

As we neared the door I became apprehensive. These, after all, were the people I suspected of carrying tales of my affair back to my father and, I had no doubt, they knew of my suspicions. There was bound to be bitterness or, at best, that gritty accommodation in relations we call compromise. Su-May must have sensed my uneasiness, for quite unexpectedly she slid her hand down the whole inside length of my arm and, taking my hand in hers, pulled me fiercely against her side. We walked in, leaning a little stiffly on each other, looking as though we shared a crutch.

“Not to worry, Hern,” she said. “Safe you are.”

The Children, despite their activity, seemed subdued. They greeted Su-May warmly but without the usual squeals and rib-tickling. I sensed in them a disappointment, as though they expected not us but someone else. Peter, however, was his usual self. He rushed forward as soon as he saw us enter and embraced the two of us together.

“Good of you,” he said, “to come. So happy, Hern, you can give some of your Christmas to us.”

He led us to the far end of the room, to a table laden with food: pots of curry steaming spiciness, elegantly dressed cubes of beancurd, steamed prawns the smell of the sea still about them. There were also several loaves of home-baked bread, something rather unusual for Singapore.

“Yes,” said Peter, noticing my surprise. “The girls insist on baking it themselves. A good thing, I suppose.” He added, in a laughing whisper, “But only when they are successful. No table is strong enough to bear the weight of their failures.”

Peter moved towards a small gas stove perched at one end of the table. Here he and a frail-looking girl were in the process of putting together a chicken stew. They quarrelled spiritedly about the order in which the ingredients should be added, the girl quite fierce, Peter pretending an annoyance that easily turned to laughter.

I moved away from them to a group of girls making spring-rolls. They looked up at me, half-smiling, openly flirtatious. I wasn’t sure how I should react. Cornelius had been with me all along but had kept well in the background. I looked at him now, hoping that the Captain with his great experience in handling women would offer guidance. He avoided my eye. I moved away from the group towards the centre of the room.

All around me there was movement. Laughing, chattering, quarrelling, the Children went about their business. Beneath the bustle I sensed an expectancy. They were waiting for something and it wasn’t simply for their meal or for the party to begin. There was in the air a tension, a terror almost, that all their bustle could not hide. From time to time, one of them would stop whatever he or she was doing to listen, an ear cocked towards the distance. Once a car passed near the house and everyone stood still until its sounds faded away.

Suddenly the frail girl who was helping Peter sang out, “OK, everybody, the food’s just about ready.”

“But Dorcas isn’t here yet,” said one of the Children.

“Should have been here hours ago,” said another.

I looked inquiringly at Peter, who said, “Dorcas is my sister. She’s out on a little errand.” He smiled around him. “Don’t worry, kids. She’ll be here soon.”

“Let’s wait for her,” a chorus suggested.

“Maybe Su-May will sing then,” someone said.

“OK, OK,” said Su-May. “Maybe my singing will drown the hunger music your stomachs are making.”

I found a packing-case to sit on. The Children sat on wooden boxes, stools, small benches. They flopped on to the rough cement floor in small groups holding hands, touching each other, casually intimate. Su-May carried her guitar to the centre of the room and sat on the floor, tucking her legs under her. Her hair, which she had washed at Sheng’s house, was now in plaits. This made her look younger, strikingly virginal: a Christmas Madonna. She strummed the guitar a few times then began singing. It was the same song she had sung the evening I had stood alone in the dark, wet garden:

“Oh, my loves have been many
But the loving was for One,
For the same light can shine in
A candle or the sun.”

The last lines of the opening verse stuck in my mind even as she went on singing, continued to ring after she had stopped and put the guitar down on the floor beside her. The words seemed to have developed a peculiar relevance to my life and went round and round my head in ever widening circles, encompassing more and more of what I saw as experience. I sat still, not joining the patter of applause. Su-May came and sat beside me. The packing-case was narrow. She put her arm round my waist and drew us together. The Children on the floor looked up at us, smiled. They knew what she was saying. Peter joined them. I couldn’t understand why I was unhappy. I looked to Cornelius. Again, he looked away.

“Now the Reverend,” said a chorus of voices. “A song from the Reverend.”

Peter protested, “You know I can’t sing, kids.”

“Go on, Pete,” said Su-May. She wriggled even closer to me. I could feel her ribs flare out against mine as she breathed. “Do the one I taught you.”

Peter looked around him, nervous. “OK. I’ll try.”

He moved to the centre of the room and picked up Su-May’s guitar. He turned the instrument on its back and standing rather awkwardly began to beat out a rhythm on the wood:

“I come as a beggar
With a gift in my hand,
I come as beggar
With a gift in my hand.”

He had a soft voice and sang in a tuneless monotone that was almost a chant. The absence of melody seemed to increase the impact of the words:

“The need of another
Is the gift that I bring,
The need of another
Is the gift that I bring.
By the hungry I will feed you
By the poor I’ll make you rich,
By the broken I will mend you,
Tell me, which one is which?”

His song was interrupted by an extremely noisy vehicle entering the garden. Its engine, straining all the time, managed to wheeze, rattle and explode before sighing into silence.

“Dorcas! It’s Dorcas!” the children shouted as they rushed into the garden.

Peter put down the guitar and walked slowly towards the door, his face strained, his normally delicate skin suddenly wizened. Su-May and I walked behind him. In the middle of the garden, perched at an angle suggesting it had come to an unexpected half, was an ancient bright-green Morris Minor. The Children, screaming, “Dorcas! Dorcas!”, had begun pulling out its sole occupant. A pair of beautifully long legs emerged, followed by a well-built girl wearing an extremely short skirt. She had a tiny nose, which squatted in the middle of a face that was almost perfectly round. Her hair was cut very short but still managed to look dishevelled. The most striking things about her, however, were her eyes. These were large, bright and darted about as swiftly as a serpent’s tongue. There was, however, nothing evil or frightening about their movement. They were the friendliest eyes possible and flitted about only to spread their goodwill the more effectively.

“Dorcas,” said Peter, his voice rising slightly, “is everything well?”

The big girl disentangled herself from the attentions of the Children and turned to him. “Fine, Pete. Everything went off A-one.” The worried look remained on his face and she added, “You’re such an old lady, big brother.” She slapped his back. “I’m late because of a bit of trouble with the car.” She had one hand on Peter’s shoulder. In the other she carried a large canvas bag. This was identical to the one Su-May took to work, except that the one Dorcas held must have been, from the way she swung it about, empty.

“Whenever you’re on this kind of thing, I worry—” Peter began. Dorcas’s hand leapt from his shoulder to his mouth, silencing him.

Following behind, I heard her say, “Did it all, Pete.” Then, laughing, “Yes, Reverend, between Gabby and me, we sowed all the ground you wanted. Rock and concrete jungle as well. Almost empty, see? She swung the canvas bag in a huge circle. “Gabby had to rush off to his grandpa’s. Says to say sorry.”

“Did you find anyone taking a special interest in you … or Gabby?”

“Not a chance,” she said slapping him on the back again. Then softening, added, “Like I said, Pete, we were very, very careful.” She flung the bag on a chair and zipped it open. “All gone except for the few we kept to read ourselves.”

Discoveries never really come as surprises. The picture exists in its entirety the moment we lock the first piece of the puzzle on to the second. The speed at which we realise this depends on our willingness to admit to the reality of what is displayed before our eyes. I knew, before Peter reached into the bag, that it would contain the latest issue of the streetpaper. I let my mind drift back and remembered knowing for a long time what the Children had been about. I knew when I moved Su-May’s canvas bag across the bed and found it unexpectedly heavy; one is forever surprised at how light a single sheet of paper is, yet how much a bundle weighs. I knew it when a devious set of circumstances drove me to use the front entrance of Benson’s and to discover the streetpapers Su-May had placed there. I knew it from the way I avoided thinking of Peter and the Children when Samson talked of the operation being run by “some cool cat and a load of kits”. I knew all along, and couldn’t deny this to myself as Su-May snuggled up beside me on the packing-case.

Peter dipped his hand into the bag and pulled out a copy of the streetpaper. “Our Christmas issue,” he said, offering it to me. When I made as though to read it, he added, “No, not now. Read it when you get home.” He folded the streetpaper and tucked it into my shirt pocket.

“I see,” I said. “This Dorcas sows discontent rather than garments for widows.”

“See, Pete,” Dorcas said, nudging him. “Didn’t I say when we first heard of him that he’d know his Bible pretty well?” She laughed. “I got the gift of prophecy, brother.”

“I think you can see, Hern, why we were nervous of outsiders getting too close to any one of us.”

“I see quite well,” I replied. “You’re not really a religious group. You’re what the government calls a clandestine political organisation.”

“There’s no diff between the two,” Dorcas chipped in. “Political and religious organisations, I mean.” She was breathless, her eyes brightening for battle. “You know the Bible so well, you should know how Christians have always been looked upon as subversives. Well, they still are. Here and everywhere. In the Philippines, in South America, priests resist tyrants, fight new Herods backed by legions in helicopter gunships.” She spoke in a rush, allowing no interruption till she was out of breath.

“Dorcas,” said Peter. “Enough.” He hadn’t raised his voice but there was no question of his authority. “We can talk to Hern freely … later. Now let’s eat.”

We moved to the table.

Singapore is an eater’s paradise, known for the variety of its foods, for the novelty of taste sensations available, and its inhabitants are obsessed with eating. We scurry after nuances of flavour, seek out the texture that some new process has put into rice noodles, pursue down dark and dingy side streets new degrees of spiciness that some Indian cook has worked into his curry. But our savourings are joyless and we wind up disgruntled, missing always the vital, ingredient that brings fulfilment to eating.

Like most Singaporeans I know a lot about food. I noticed immediately that there was nothing special about the dishes laid out on the table. Prepared by amateurs, they were displayed without style. I knew from the way Peter and the frail-looking girl had put together the chicken stew that a lot of enthusiasm had gone into the cooking and the energy of this hung about the dishes like haloes. But amateur cooks remain, however enthusiastic, amateurs.

I was cautious and helped myself to a small portion of the stew. I was surprised at how good the food tasted and how each morsel demanded that I go on to the next. Before long I had dispensed with caution and was loading my plate willy-nilly with whatever was before me. I am neither a gourmet nor a glutton and was at a loss to understand my appetite. Perhaps it had been stimulated by the strenuous love-making Su-May and I had just enjoyed. Perhaps? I would try and believe that, try to deny that the vital ingredient in the enjoyment of food was fellowship: this fellowship that proclaimed itself in the smell of the bread, that impregnated the onion skins, had found its way into the stew and could be heard in the crunching of the spring-rolls the Children chewed.

Dorcas was beside me. She stood on one leg and leaned slightly on my shoulder, a plate in her hand.

“Eat well, Hern,” she whispered in my ear, “so no one will notice how much I put away.” She straightened herself to her full height. “It’s a long way down for me and a whole lot of space to fill.”

“Dorcas confessing her gluttony?” asked Peter, coming between us.

Su-May joined us wiping her plate clean with a piece of bread.

“You have enjoyed your food,” said Peter, “but you are not happy.” He looked at me intently, his head cocked to one side.

This was true.

I cannot remember enjoying a meal as much as the one I had just eaten. But the good fellowship and gaiety around did little to remove my discomfiture. While unhappy about the way in which Singapore was run, I was disturbed at the prospect of upheaval and uneasy in the company of people who proposed it. This was partly due to a natural conservatism. But there was a more important reason for it. In writing, I snatched images and sequences from my head, matched them against a well-ordered world and between the two concocted a reality essential to my well-being. Anything that threatened this process frightened me.

“I thought you were a bunch of Christian do-gooders,” I said. “Now I find I am mixed up in some sort of urban guerrilla movement. What the hell are you lot anyway?” I tried to sound light-hearted, bantering, but my voice had risen and I seemed to be addressing the whole group.

Peter spoke. “As Dorcas said, it is the way of tyrants to keep religion and politics separate.” He paused for what seemed a long while before going on: “What is wrong is wrong. You can call the movement that seeks to right it whatever you wish.”

“I thought you Christians had it spelled out for you,” I said, affecting a smile. “Isn’t there some injunction that requires you to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto God…?”

“Caesar?” he said. “Caesar?” His voice was louder than I had ever heard it. His eyelid twitched as he fought to control the look of contempt and fury that was developing at the corner of his mouth. His skin had become slightly mottled and his nostrils flared. Peter spoke not to me nor even the Children but over our heads, his eyes focused into the distance, his face intense. In a flash, all my distaste for the man returned. I saw him for what he was, not just a demagogue but one who was Su-May’s lover in the bargain, an irresponsible crackpot guru who had made a cuckold out of me.

The Children, Su-May and Dorcas included, had backed away to the sides of the room, leaving us facing each other, two men in the centre of the ring about to begin battle. Peter looked around him. With great deliberation, he placed his right foot on a packing-case, clasped his hands around his knee and, this done, turned his head upwards to look steadily at me. His movements were precise, balletic, designed to intimidate.

“People driven by fear,” he pronounced, “cannot say where Caesar ends and God begins.”

“So we are back to the old streetpaper business about Singapore being a police state, ruled by terror.”

“Fear is a strange and mysterious thing,” he said. “To begin with, it’s dazzling, painfully bright. A fierce and unavoidable force. Then we grow used to it, make ourselves excuses and find room for it in the secret places of our lives. Yes,” he said, chin raised for an audience that was yet to be his, “we are indeed a flexible and accommodating people. We swallow our pride, we swallow our self-respect not with difficulty, not as though it were broken glass, but smoothly, like shark’s-fin soup.

“When we have done that, we no longer see our fear. It is hidden inside a new name. We talk of facing realities and think of ourselves not as cowards but as hard-headed practical people.” He laughed—to himself and at me. “Yes, my friend, even as I talk, you see the truth of my words.”

This was correct. Peter’s speech had much the same effect on me that the streetpaper had had. It hypnotised me. Compelled me to believe. Subdued the tiny, protesting voices of reason that rose within me. One broke away from the rest and I heard myself ask, “How is it I see no signs of this terror you talk so glibly, about?”

Speaking in a large oracular voice he said, “We are all blind to sights that hurt our eyes.” He took his hands off his knee and spread them out before him, appealing for agreement. “Think of the times, my friend, when rather than stare at injustice we have shielded our eyes and called it bad luck. When, rather than accept naked hate in somebody, we refer to his touchiness.” He stopped, dropped his hands and laughed. His voice became low and he seemed to be talking to himself. “Yes, self-reliance is a disregard for everyone but yourself; and the callousness to climb to the top on the faces of your rivals is called a healthy competitive spirit. It becomes worse and worse, for truth and justice are looked on as foreign values designed to corrupt our people and upset the productivity of our state.”

He raised his voice and looked steadily at me. “Of course, friend, you don’t see the terror because with the terror is provided the means of hiding it from ourselves, the means of making it invisible and our shame bearable. When selected women are ushered into breeding camps and the poor are sterilized, whispers of fascism are drowned in loud talk of encouraging social development, of correcting population imbalance. Oh, no, we’re not afraid to voice our disagreement—if there were some place where we could safely make our voices heard. No, we’re not afraid to speak up. We’re not intimidated by the vast, uniformed, and even vaster, un-uniformed, unidentifiable police-force. We’re not frightened by the rumours of what happens to people who do speak up. Oh, no, it is not fear. We choose to bite our tongues and remain silent in the interest of our nation.” His hands dropped to his sides and his shoulders sagged.

“Apart from your streetpaper, how,” I asked, “do you propose to change all this?”

“I don’t really,” he shrugged, his face no longer intense, “know.” The strength seemed to have left him. “Though the streetpaper seems to be going quite,” he looked over his shoulder to smile at Dorcas, “good. I thought that, perhaps, we could some time—at culture week, like—” he shook his head as though already dismissing the idea—“we could get people to make some kind of protest sign.”

“A demonstration?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head, “big. A gesture at a parade or concert.”

I laughed, “Some kind of clenched-fist salute?”

“Too strong, man, and nowadays getting a bit square, like,” said Dorcas, stepping up to us.

As the tension between Peter and me subsided, the Children moved closer. Surrounding us now, they were back to being their old noisy, laughing selves, jostling, interrupting each other.

“We thought of something new … peaceful, like, too,” Dorcas continued. “Just raising both arms…”

“Hands open,” someone began.

“Palms upwards,” someone else added.

“Like the gesture of surrender,” explained Dorcas.

“But not a surrender at all…”

“More appeal…”

“Asking for support maybe…”

“And when is this … this appeal going to be made?” I asked.

“Whenever the national anthem is played,” said Peter. “There will be hundreds of shows and concerts during Culture Week. The anthem will be played at all of these.”

What he planned was now clear to me. It was about six months to Culture Week and, during this period, the streetpaper and its offshoots would be used to generate resentment against the government. People would be reminded of all the occasions on which the ruling party had been vindictive, callous, arrogant or just incompetent. Apart from encouraging people to expose such situations and report them in streetpapers, no action would be proposed. This would bring anti-government feelings to the boil. Just before Culture Week, streetpapers would suggest that some overt demonstration of disaffection was necessary: a gesture to show that people were not afraid, a sign not merely of their discontent but of their willingness to protest. Once initiated, defiance would escalate. The first meaningless gesture would be followed by more specific ones: walk-outs at the appearance of dignitaries, flooding post-boxes with unstamped mail, sighing in unison when government advertisements were shown in cinema. Later there would be strikes, riots…

As Peter spoke, his eyes brightened and he began to pant slightly. “We will undertake no acts of crime or sabotage. Just,” he smiled grimly, “defiance. The David in all of us standing up to the oppressing Goliath.”

“And,” I said, “once things are under way, the protesters will find a political leader in Peter Yu.”

“Tell, tell, Pete,” said Dorcas, laughing wildly. “I didn’t know you aimed to be a political hotshot.”

Peter laughed too, holding his head to one side, fragile and boyish again. He said, “I am not a politician. Believe it or not, I have no wish for power.”

“Then why take all the risks?” I asked.

“A difficult question, Hern,” he said. “I tell myself that I can sow and not want to reap, but that’s not quite true.” He looked over his shoulder and Su-May stepped forward and stood beside him. “The truth is, I won’t be around for much longer.”

His voice had dropped to a whisper. It was obvious that he was determined to inject as much drama as possible into what he was about to say.

I couldn’t resist taunting him. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a fatal disease and are not long for this world. I thought the pallor in your cheeks was due to lack of sunlight; now you are going to tell me you’ve got leukaemia—”

“No, Hern,” Su-May interrupted. “It’s something we, Peter and me, have been planning to tell you for a long time.”

“Let’s the three of us go into the garden for a chat,” said Peter. He smiled at the group around us and added, “Time for grown-up talk, kids, so you lot can get on with the clearing up.”

I remembered the last time I had been in that garden. It had been dark and wet then. Su-May had offered me tears and a kiss, which I had read as that of betrayal. Looking back on events, I tend to think of Rex Zhu’s visit to Benson’s furniture department as the start of my misfortune, the tiny tremor that warned of the collapse of my life. Perhaps I was wrong to think so. Perhaps it was Su-May’s warm, tear-salted kiss in that dark, damp garden that signalled the beginning of my end. Though it was now day and the garden looked different, rain was clearly in the air. It was starting to darken and heavy, black clouds moved lugubriously across the sky while light, grey ones scampered across their faces. Little puffs of wind ruffled the leaves that had been dried and swept into neat piles ready for burning. The wooden bench on which we had kissed was no longer wet and Peter led us towards it. He indicated that I sit but I shook my head and we stood around awkwardly, waiting.

Finally I asked, “When you say you’ll be gone before anything happens, I take it you were talking of leaving the country?”

Peter sighed. The look of weariness that crossed his face bordered on pain. He took Su-May’s hand and mine in each of his before lowering himself on to the wooden seat. He could have been an old man blessing a young couple, sanctioning a relationship.

“Some people, Hern…” he began, then shook his head and started again. “Some of us can only be happy when we are involved in the lives of others.” He looked miserable but went on. “It is not that we are good or kind … or even thoughtful people. It’s a need we have, a craving to put things right. To relieve pain, help the oppressed, overcome—”

“And producing your streetpaper was one way of satisfying that need?”

“Yes, one way. A small way.”

I laughed. “Provoking people into dissatisfaction and rebellion is helping them?”

“Yes,” he said very softly. He looked a little dreamy and there was in his eyes the beginnings of that faraway look. “Yes. The first step in the cure is to bring the disease to the surface, applying a poultice to the abscess so the pus can show itself.” He snapped his head upwards and the dreamy look left his face. His voice rose as he said, “I don’t want to talk about that. I want to tell you our plans. Like I told Su, you must hear them from us, directly.”

He said this steadily, looking up at me, his eyes holding mine. An icicle entered my heart. I shivered internally, the way one does when looking down a precipice.

“Your plans? Yes, tell me your plans.”

“There’s a hospital in Africa.” His face was composed. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “A little place run by missionaries. They need help. All the help they can get. Medically trained help, I mean.”

“Trained?” I said, my voice high with challenge. “Su-May’s a nurse, but you, you’re just an agit—”

“I’m a trained physiotherapist, Hern.” He allowed his face to lapse into a smile.

“So you’re going out as a … team?” I was surprised enough to make this a question.

“First we thought of New Guinea,” said Su-May, joining the conversation. “But Pete felt it was too close to home. Crazy, we were. Even thought of South America.” She was bubbling over, eyes shining, hands fluttering about in excitement. “Real loonies, Hern.” She put her forefinger against her forehead and made a twisting movement. “Then I heard about this place in Tanzania. A young doctor at the hospital just got back from working there. So much to do, he said. So off we’ll go.”

“Marvellous,” I said. “Simply marvellous.”

“Great, yah, Hern,” she said brightly, and began to chatter about the equipment they would have to take with them and how they would acquire it.

I was shocked, not merely by their plan but by Su-May’s insensitiveness to the effect this would have on me. Two hours ago she and I had been making love. She had kissed me many times and in many places, displaying an ingenuity that never failed to surprise and excite me. Now each of those kisses had become a gesture of betrayal, itemised and unique, personalised reminders of her treachery.

I stood beside them, stricken not merely dumb but immobile, an animal resigned to stillness at the point of the abattoir’s bolt.

Oblivious of my distress, of my presence even, the lovers continued to make plans. At thirty I was an old man, left out, a nuisance. Someone to be derided, pitied, ignored. Strangely enough, I knew the feeling well. My mother, Clara, had a passion for seeing movies not once but again and again. As a child she had often taken me to an unfashionable cinema, which specialised in reruns. In darkness and on an uncomfortable seat, I had learnt how stupid old men in love become. I remember Carrie and The Blue Angel, I think of Limelight and Pygmalion. My eyes begin to smart. I did what I always do to stop my tears: I frowned slightly, screwing up my eyes and at the same time staring into the distance.

From the house the sounds of shouts of laughter were followed by silence. Then a group began singing “Mary’s Boy Child”.

Pete said, “Let’s get back to the kids.”

Su-May nodded and stretched out a hand towards me.

I backed slightly to stay out of her reach and said, “I suppose I should be getting home.”

I hoped she would notice the turn of phrases and be touched by memories. She didn’t. Her body moving slightly to the rhythm of the music, she said, “Stay, Hern. Stay. The party’s only just beginning.”

“I’m afraid,” I said, hoping once again to catch her attention with what she always regarded as my old-fashioned speech, “I’ll have to run.”

“Don’t run,” she laughed, and I was grateful. “I’ll drive you to where you can catch a cab.”

“There’s no need to,” I said, holding up a hand. Still staring into the distance, I shook Peter’s hand solemnly and managed, after a tremendous effort, to touch Su-May lightly on the cheek. Then I walked away.

The house in which the Children met was surrounded by a maze of winding lanes, anonymous, and leading purposelessly one into the other. My mind was a blank as I wandered among these. When I finally decided that the best thing to do would be to get home, I realised I was lost. Not knowing the direction in which the main road lay caused me to panic. I took a road which ended blindly and another which led to a fenced garden policed by unfriendly dogs. The sky, which had earlier been overcast, was now rapidly blackening as dark, low-flying clouds moved swiftly across it. I knew that once these had blown over it would become a pale luminous grey and the rain would come pelting down. Not too far away I could hear thunder, preceded by that snap of silence which is the moment of lightning. The air was heavy and damp but contained a hint of burning like that which lingers around freshly fused light bulbs. An unnatural smell. Unnatural and menacing.

Betrayed by Su-May, taken in by Peter, I was now being threatened by the elements themselves. As I struggled up a road with a steep uphill gradient, I felt abandoned and unloved. I needed to believe that someone worried about me; worried that I would be cold and wet in a storm, worried that I would be struck by lightning. The road wound haphazardly, making unexpected bends and doubling back on itself. I had no idea of the direction in which I was going and my progress was slow. A silence began to settle around me and I knew the storm was gathering for its opening onslaught. More than ever did I need a woman whose anxiety for me bred the kind of love that swelled in her chest till it threatened to choke her. There was no such woman in my life. But I was not alone. Cornelius was with me. The good Captain, however, was of no use in situations like this. I would have to look after myself and, realising what this involved, I avoided his eye.

Of course, I had known all along that it would come to this. Just as I had known all along that Peter and the Children were responsible for the streetpaper, as I sensed betrayal in that dark, damp garden when Su-May kissed me, as I saw control of my life snatched from my hands the morning Rex Zhu had come into the furniture department of Benson’s.

I am increasingly conscious of living in an eternal now, an unending present that makes tense meaningless. The events we see in sequence are with us all the time: an enormous canvas upon which we dare not gaze. Instead, we snatch glimpses of it and with piecemeal impressions impose sequence and a sense of time upon our lives. Had I dared look, I would have seen the solution to my problem instantly. I struggled round yet another corner and, to my surprise, found myself on the main road. The first, fat drops of rain were beginning to hit the ground like bullets when an empty cab drew up beside me. I must call Samson Alagaratnam as soon as I reached home, I thought, getting into the cab and pulling the door shut after me.